


Hayloft

by Devilc



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Character of Color, Chromatic Character, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-08
Updated: 2010-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carter Wellan was Haresh Clay's squire for Nine. Hundred. Years. Don't tell me they were just friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hayloft

**Author's Note:**

> I was very struck by this couple from the 5th season episode _The End of Innocence_. It just seemed odd that two guys would hang out for 900 years and be "just friends". I mean, Clay was so **devastated** by Wellan's death. I wrote this story and found my suspicions confirmed by the Watcher CD which makes it pretty damn clear that the two were lovers.

### Southern France, 1106

It had begun two nights ago when they shared the whore in Nice  bah! who was he fooling?! No, it really had begun 8 years ago in the heat and blood of Antioch as a crusader's spear ripped through his chest. As the blood fountained from his nose and mouth, as the familiar blackness pulled him under, he felt the buzz.

He started awake in the dark coolness of a cellar, the air thick with the stench of congealed blood, the smell of death. Shakily, Haresh rose to his feet and assessed the situation. Stumbling about in the darkness, he tripped over several other bodies. Dimly above him he could hear the sounds of drunken revelry; the accursed Christians had won. For what reason had he been taken here, instead of left in the street or pitched over the walls? Suddenly the buzz resonated in the small room. Panicked, he readied himself. When he had died, the other immortal had not yet figured out who he was and had hauled the most likely bodies to this room, that had to be the reason. A line of dim light appeared, and then a small door creaked open. Haresh crouched, ready to spring into action.

Golden torchlight bathed the most beautiful face he'd ever seen, and all thought of violence fled. The young man looked so much like an angel (as the Christians depicted them) that for an irrational moment, Haresh thought someone had taken his head and he stood at the entrance to the afterlife.

Glancing about furtively, the golden hared immortal raised a finger to his lips, indicating the need for silence. Satisfied that he had not been followed, the other immortal then handed Haresh a large, dark cloak. Haresh took it, glad to cover his blood soaked, stinking robes. Haresh wondered at this immortal's motives, and wished he spoke a Christian tongue so that he could ask the stranger what was going on. Why hadn't this man taken his head? _Bah! in the middle of a heated battle in a crowded citadel?! Lighting strikes out of the sky on a clear day  as subtle as a charging herd of Elephants!_ Was he one of those honorable immortals who only took heads as the result of fair combat? Or would he be led to some isolated spot and then slaughtered like a goat for the spit? Haresh vowed he would not go without a fight.

Once again indicating the need for silence, the youthful looking immortal took him by the arm and lead him via back alleys, avoiding most of the drunken revelers, through the citadel to the sally port. A swift blow to the head took care of the none too sober guard, and his guide winched the gate up just enough for Haresh to crawl under. Just before he ducked under, the man handed him a long, narrow, tightly wrapped bundle. His sword! Made of the finest Damascus steel, it cost a small fortune. He thought he'd lost it forever. Flashing an ecstatic smile at his benefactor, Haresh ducked out into the night.

He spent the next six years sensing and catching glimpses of the golden hared foot soldier, always on the other side of the battle line, never coming close enough to speak.

Then, two years ago, during a small skirmish in the hills outside of Acre, Haresh captured the immortal, taking him prisoner. Instead of terror, a wry, amused grin curved his captive's mouth. Haresh liked this man who could laugh where most would've wept or pleaded.

In the French that he had struggled to learn, Haresh asked his captive his name and what it was he thought so funny. Haltingly, and with an equally heavy accent, his captive replied that his name was Carter and that there was no point in taking him hostage  he was a commoner, and an English one at that, no Norman would pay a ransom to have him back, and, in fact, one of them had tried to take his head a few days ago.

"And did you take his head?"

"No. Do you see a sword on me?. In England, no peasant, and especially a Saxon one at that, is allowed to carry a sword, so I don't know how to use one. And why haven't you tried to kill me yet?"

"Because I owe you a debt of honor. How is it that you have survived so long?"

"I run fast." Carter grinned from ear to ear.

Haresh had to laugh at that. Here was a saucy one to lighten his dark moods! "So you've had no teacher, then? You've taken no heads?"

"No."

"Well then, my student, we shall have to change that. Could you find the Lord who hunted you?"

"Easily."

Two days later, dressed as a Christian Knight and Squire, Haresh and Carter cornered the unfortunate Norman Lord in a dark alley. Haresh disabled him, Carter dispatched him, taking the Norman's quickening and his sword. By dawn they were miles out side of Acre, heading north. Haresh had never seen the green and pleasant lands of Europe, and now he had Carter to guide him. The last time he had seen lush greenery, it had been in the jungles of his native land. Carter assured him that the forests of the north were nothing like that. Haresh wanted to see the lush meadows, broad rivers, and fair skinned peoples that Carter spoke of.

Despite the fact that he was almost two hundred years older than Carter, in finding him, Haresh felt he had found the other half of his soul. Carter was uncultured and illiterate, while he was sophisticated and could read 3 languages (unfortunately, these northern barbarians wrote in a completely different alphabet.) He was serious and given to dark moods while Carter often bubbled over with roguish mirth. Carter was fair and had a lion's mane of golden curls; he was dark and kept his head shaved. However, they both shared the same approach to daily life, dreaming no great dreams, taking each day as it came.

For two years they had picked their way across Europe. For six months they had lived in Christian monastery high in the mountains skirting Rome (an experience that had taught Haresh more about snow and Christian austerity than he cared to know.) Together they had learned to read Latin and French. Carter taught him his native tongue, English, as Haresh taught him manners and the art of swordplay. Carter fell into the role of squire easily and naturally. He seemed to enjoy his duties, and took great pride in the upkeep of their clothing and tack and the care of their horses. The days fell into familiar pattern, rising, riding, resting. The finest courts welcomed them; they slept beneath bushes on the roadside, and more than once woke up with terrible (but blessedly short) hangovers and only dim memories of the night before. Every morning Haresh woke to the sound of Carter stropping his razor before shaving; every week the same nimble fingers lathered, then shaved his head. The whole thing had a relaxing and pleasant ritual quality to it. It felt good to give his trust so completely to another person, another immortal, a friend.

Two nights ago, on a whim, during a night of drinking and carousing, they had shared a whore, taking her at the same time. A novelty for both of them. As soon as they began to thrust, Haresh could feel Carter's engorgement caressing him through the thin wall of flesh that separated them. It had opened gateways of excitement and intimacy in his mind. Startled, his eyes locked with Carter's and in them he saw mirrored the same knowledge, the same understanding, the same acceptance. What had started out as a quick and forgettable fuck became something much more profound. Their gazes remained fixed as through her flesh they made love to each other for the first time.

The next morning, silently, they rode out of Nice, accompanying a group of merchants. The large common room of the inn they had all stopped at for the night offered them no opportunities, and all the private rooms were taken. The next day, at the first fork in the road, by unspoken mutual agreement, they had parted ways with the merchants.

By nightfall, they had arrived in a small backwater market town. The run down and filthy inn (even Carter had turned up his nose at the odor) had only a common room. They made arrangements to sleep in the stables. After bedding down the horses for the night, Carter had blown out the lantern, and without coyness, without slyness, without nervousness, took his hand and silently led him though the darkness up to the hayloft.

There were no words, only hands and caresses and sharp delighted breaths as Carter slowly undressed him, folding each item of clothing neatly before removing the next. Haresh thought he would go mad with longing. Finally they embraced, delighting in the feel of heated flesh on flesh. Gently Carter lowered him to the fragrant hay, his eyes large and luminous in the dim moonlight that filtered in though the cracks in the roof, bathing his body in ethereal light. He climbed on top of Haresh, drew him close, hissing delightedly as their cocks touched. Both began thrusting  gently at first then more fiercely as the urgency increased and sweat slicked them. Their bodies fit together as if made for this moment; exquisite sensation flooded every nerve ending. With a low wailing cry, Carter shuddered his seed between them and the extra rush of hot slickness pushed Haresh over the edge. His world exploded into searing rush of color and just as swiftly tumbled into blackness.

The sensation of a warm, wet tongue cleaning the stickiness from his hips and chest brought Haresh back to awareness. Carter met him with an impish grin, then suddenly darted up and kissed him, and Haresh knew for the first time the heady taste of their mixed essences. Pushing Carter down, Haresh licked him clean, and kissed him for long, glowing moments before sleep claimed them.

The next morning, he woke to the sound of birdsong. Dim sunlight filtered into the barn. Carter still breathed the heavy, even breath of sleep. Softly, softly Haresh studied Carter, caressing him with his eyes, cataloging the way the hay clung to the golden curls, mapping the interlocked ebony and ivory of their limbs, drinking in the rich and earthy smell of Carter's body combined with the summer meadow smell of the hay. Tenderly he brushed a blonde curl away from the stubbled cheek. A happy, sleepy, cerulean eye regarded him for a moment, then sank back into slumber. At that moment Haresh knew that, years, decades, centuries from now he would find himself traveling back to the memory of this one, perfect moment  birdsong, muted sunshine, the perfume of fresh hay, and the warm body of his eternal beloved entwined with his.


End file.
